


a pleasure to make your acquaintance (turn me around burn me up inside)

by lemondropsssss



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fix-It of Sorts, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24810355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemondropsssss/pseuds/lemondropsssss
Summary: After. After the mountain and the shouting and the utter ache that's taken up residence in his chest. After. He returns to what he knows, to Oxenfurt and his students. He cuts his hair, he grows his beard. He remakes himself, renames himself, he is Julian again for the first time in a long time. And still it isn't enough. He drinks, and he teaches, and wonders if this is all his life has brought him. And that's when Fate pushes him into a blinding light, and lands a Witcher and his Child Surprise on his doorstep.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 170
Kudos: 769





	1. Chapter 1

The mountain happens.

Words are said in a moment of anger and fear. Terrible words. The Witcher couldn't have hurt him more if he'd used his sword. Jaskier has made Geralt angry before, but this? This was different. This time he means it.

So he walks away.

Doesn’t get the stories from the others. He stops at their campsite and packs up his gear as quickly as he can. He knows there’s a few of his items in Geralt’s pack but he ignores them. Rooting through the man’s belongings with abandon is not something he should be doing anymore. 

His ears are ringing and all he can hear is the steady thud of his heartbeat and the beat of his lute on his back as he walks. 

His lute. Jaskier stops short and quickly pulls the instrument from its case. Still as beautiful as the day Filavandrel had given it to him, barring one small dent when he’d used the poor girl as club. He’d taken out four of the bandit’s teeth with that blow. Geralt had smiled at him. 

Now thinking of that moment brings bile to his mouth, and he retches horribly into the tall grass. The rushing in his ears gets louder and louder. His grip tightens and he can hear the unhappy twang of pressed strings.

He needs to get it away from him as humanly possible so Jaskier grips his lute and flings it far over the mountain side. He doesn't hear it hit the ground, but knows there will be nothing left of it but scrap.

Good.

He keeps walking. 

Jaskier is alone, half drunk on lack of sleep and actual drink from his hipflask when it happens. When the last twenty-two years of his life fragments around him.

It's the fucking metalsmith's that triggers it; one second he's ambling down the road in the vague direction of an inn, tavern, or otherwise amenable hayloft. And the next second he's brought to his knees by the smells of worked leather, hot steel, sword oil, and some burnt tang in the air he can't even name. It's distinctly Geralt and it breaks him.

Memories fall around him like shards of glass; cutting his skin until a biting stinging _hurt_ is all he can feel. And when the pieces shatter they dig into him; flaming shards of the last decades burrow deep into him, the hurt taking root in his bones and the soles of his feet. And every piece sounds like... 

_Shut up, bard_

_Fuck off, Jaskier_

_Go away, boy_

**_Why do you never listen?_ **

**_He wanted you gone_ **

_You shouldn’t be here_

**_He doesn’t like you_ **

_This is where we part, bard_

**_He wanted to be rid of you_ **

_It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling_

**_He’s telling you everything you need to know why don’t you take the hint you stupid useless excuse of a man_ **

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands_

**_For once in your life do as your told_ **

* * *

It takes Jaskier three months to get from the dragon mountains to Oxenfurt. Apparently, destroying his main way of generating income isn’t the best idea he’s ever had. It also doesn't help that most of the coin he does find he in turn spends primarily on wine and not say, getting to his destination in a timely fashion. 

Cresting the hill, Oxenfurt is just as beautiful as he remembered it. He slogs through the city, thinking wistfully of one of Geralt's more useful talents; scaring other travelers well away meant less time pushing and shoving through people to get anywhere. 

When he finally reaches the great carved gates to the University he’s stopped by two guards before he can even think to step closer. 

“This entrance is for students, faculty, and the academics. Giving Door is around the back.” The guard gestured over his shoulder towards the back side of the citadel where Jaskier knew there was a free kitchen and a place to get staple supplies run by the University.

“Oh, but I am faculty, good sir,” He says with an easy smile. No need to antagonize the nice men with pointy sticks. “Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, at your service.” He mimes tipping his cap. The guards are not impressed.

It takes some wheedling, but soon the dean is summoned and Jaskier is recognized and clapped firmly on the shoulder and after just a little too long of the bowing and scraping and speaking of payment and contracts and _gods cursed lesson-plans_ before Jaskier is allowed to retire to his rooms. 

The rooms are as he left them, though he suspects that while he was being held captive by the dean someone came in to sweep, dust, and open the windows. 

Here he is. Home. Or as much as passes for it anymore. He’d thought that Geralt was his home but- no. No. If he was going to do this and be here, he has to put that fanciful life aside. He has to accept that he doesn’t belong in the worlds of magic inhabited by witchers and sorceresses and powerful princesses. He was a bard. Less than that, he was a bard without an instrument. 

Well then. 

Time for a change. 

The next morning he takes a long bath. His traveler's beard is scruffier than he likes, so he trims and shapes it carefully until he’s satisfied. It's important to look the part. He'd managed to squirrel away a hefty sum over the years, so he goes down to the city on a mission.

He buys new shirts, trousers, doublets, boots, coats, gloves. All in muted earth or jewel tones; burgundies, rusts, indigos, navies, and soft tawny browns. No black. He gets his hair cut shorter, something more fitting a professor at a prodigious university and not some fumbling idiot following a man who clearly doesn’t care for him. 

When Jaskier gets home he carefully packs everything from his life with Geralt into a chest. His clothes, cloak, packs, songbook, and some small treasures children had given them as thanks. He grabs the last one, a crudely carved wooden cat. Geralt had been given this by an eight-year-old girl in some backwater village plagued by a nasty band of nekkers. She’d been so proud of her work, even Geralt couldn’t be a grouch to her. He puts that figurine back on the mantle, shuts the chest, and pushes it under the bed. 

Slowly, he dresses in his new wardrobe. Shaking fingers struggle with new buttons, but he manages the shirt and half of the doublet. Trousers next, then boots. And finally, after an age of adjusting seams and doing then redoing buttons, he meets his eye in the floor length mirror. 

The man before him is in his early forties. He's handsome, with a wide smile and bright blue eyes. Lightly built, but corded with muscles built over years on the road. A few streaks of grey swirl in his hair. He’s fit, almost six foot tall. Dark blue peeks from under his high necked burgundy doublet. Dressed like this, he looks like a professor and not some damned fool. 

“Well then,” His voice is rough, even to his own ears. “Jaskier the Bard is dead.” Saying it aloud made his breath catch, his stomach roll, but he stood firm. “Jaskier the Bard is dead.” That felt marginally better. “Jaskier the Bard is dead.” Hardly any wobble to his voice at all that time. “Jaskier the Bard died on a mountain top, far from home and very alone.” Deep breath. 

“My name is Professor Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier receives a letter he isn't prepared for

The first week back in Oxenfurt is mainly paperwork. Contract agreements with the University, submitting course-plans for review, submitting and re-submitting lesson plans, and rather unfortunately, a letter home. Claiming the title of Viscount at the gates has repercussions and likely word has already been sent to Lettenhove of his arrival. So he sends the least offensive missive he can to his father and hopes he doesn’t wake up one day to the wrong end of a sword and his father’s intense glare.

The letter he receives back isn’t what he’s expecting. 

_Julian,_

_I am glad to hear you’re well. I admit to worrying on occasion that you’d died along the road somewhere and I would never know. Mother and Father died of the sweating sickness five years ago now. She asked for you at the end, but we couldn’t find you to bring you home. I snuck in a bard to sing your songs, so she could hear of your adventures. She liked the one about the selkie the best._

_Adina and Jessa are grown, and have both married. Their husbands are good men, I made sure of it. Adina is expecting her second child. They were both so young when you left, and Father didn’t allow us to speak of you. But when the twins cried out at night I would sneak into their nursery and tell them your stories so they’d know some part of you._

_The Viscountcy is yours to claim, though I predict some challenges in governing from Oxenfurt. I have been overseeing Lettenhove since Father’s passing, and admit that I enjoy the work. It’s nice to feel needed. And to give our people a proper liege lord, one who won’t just ignore their claims as Father did while increasing taxes to supplement his and Mother’s lifestyle. Our people are healing, and they need their lord at home with them._

_I have an arrangement that I suspect will suit both our needs. Claim the title of Viscount, and give your written word that I am your proxy here in Lettenhove. You may continue to teach, while I run the estate. You will have use of the Oxenfurt townhouse, and will receive a monthly stipend. Please consider this offer. I care deeply for our home and the people of Lettenhove, as I know you do. Please see that this is best for everyone._

_I love you, Julek._

_Your sister,_

_Marta_

Jaskier reads the letter five times in total. His father is dead. And that’s- well he can’t say he exactly mourns for him. But his mother asked for him, and that knowledge breaks his heart. Where was he five years ago? Could he have seen her again? Held her hand as the light left her eyes? And the twins. Closing his eyes he can see them as toddlers. They were barely walking when he left, and now they’re married with children of their own. He remembers holding them both in his arms, fourteen-years-old, and feeling such love. The way they’d looked asleep in their cribs when he said goodbye. The way their baby soft hair had felt under his fingers. He can almost hear their laughter, and tears slip past his closed eyes. 

Marta. His dear Marta. Who he’d sneak sweets to under the dinner table. Who never hurt any creature, no matter how small or scaly or slimy. Marta with her big brown eyes and soft smile. Who would climb into his bed at night when she was afraid and he’d tell her stories until the monsters went away and she fell asleep in his arms. And oh, knowing that she’d done the same for the twins breaks his heart all over again. 

Jaskier sinks to the floor slowly, barely aware of his movements, letter clutched to his chest. And he cries. 

He cries for his mother, and the last breath of air she took. He cries for his little sisters, who had only stories to know him by. He cries for the birthdays he missed, and the skinned knees he couldn’t kiss better, and the way they must have looked on their wedding days. He cries for the nieces or nephews he doesn’t know, and for the one on the way. He cries for his father, and the things he never got to say to him. He cries for Marta, and the loneliness she must feel in that big old castle by herself. He cries for leaving her alone to watch their parents die. He cries for every moment he missed of his sisters' lives. Every moment he couldn’t protect them. Every moment he wasn’t there. 

And this isn’t like losing Geralt, but the pain hits him in the same spot. It drives like glass into his skin, into his center, until all he is is shattered. He is pieces of lives missed and letters unsent and things undone. 

He cries for the family he abandoned, and the man who abandoned him. 

* * *

The townhouse hasn’t seen much use since he was younger and his parents would take them to the city for summers. Jaskier doesn’t mind. The first thing he does is send most of the paintings and sculptures to Marta; they’re too ostentatious for him, and she can do what she likes with the remnants of their parent’s luxe style choices. He has a crew from the Giving Door come to the house and collect any furniture they want to go to their second-hand shop. Good riddance to it all. 

He furnishes the house in more earthy and jewel tones. Plush sofas, soft beds, and the biggest tub he can reasonably fit in the bathroom. Jaskier makes the house everything it wasn’t before; soft, warm, inviting, happy. 

Jaskier hires a housekeeper named Beatrice who calls him _hun_ and won’t answer to anything other than Auntie or Bea. Bea moves into the servant’s level with a very old, very small white dog named Arthur who takes up residence on a pillow in the front window and hardly moves. He is absolutely smitten with them both.

When he comes back late from the University, Bea has a warm dinner waiting for him. If she’s gone to bed, she leaves out tea and a covered plate of meat cheese and bread for him. It’s being taken care of in a way Jaskier isn’t entirely used to, but not opposed to. 

In fact, he finds he quite likes the calm of routine. His students are eager to learn, and after the first two months hardly ask him about the White Wolf anymore. Jaskier’s grateful. It isn’t easy to explain to a room full of young people who admire you that the man you immortalized in song wished you gone for two decades before you noticed. Not that it’s easy to explain to anyone, really. 

And that’s how it goes for eighteen months. Jaskier teaches, he comes home, he sleeps, and he does it again. It’s nice to reconnect with his University peers, and Oxenfurt is a revolving door of old faces. Some though, are more well received than others. 

Jaskier is teaching when it happens. It’s his high poetry class, only five students. A knock at the door, and the pinched face of a University messenger pokes around the door.

“Professor Julian?” All the class is looking between them. “There was someone at the gate for you.” His stomach drops. “He wouldn’t wait, insisted I bring them to you.” Jaskier’s mouth is suddenly very dry. It takes two attempts to get his mouth moving. 

“Right, yes, thank you. Uh,” He looks back at his expectant class, “Right, you all... do something with a poem, class dismissed.” 

Jaskier knows what’s waiting for him on the other side of the door. Only one person would be so insistent to see him they’d terrify a messenger so.

Said messenger is very relieved when Jaskier appears on the other side of the door. He offers him a quick bow and bolts back down the corridor, leaving Jaskier alone with his waiting guests. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short interlude for ya'll since i probably won't be able to update for another week or so. woot dental surgery! basically i needed to sort out the money and cannot resist giving everyone multiple sisters? and also some casual pain and a cliff hanger for ya
> 
> the oc sisters aren't gonna be a huge focus, i just wanted to explore what it means to not speak to your family for 22 plus years and the toll that takes


	3. Chapter 3

“Hello Geralt.” By some strange miracle his tone is even, his hands don’t shake, and Jaskier doubts even Geralt could suss out his anxiety.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt looks different. Ragged would not be an incorrect word for it. Geralt’s hair is greasy, the white streaked grey from lack of washing. He’s dressed all in black par the course, but his shirt has seen better days and his cloak looks like it’s coming apart at the seams. Geralt is without his armor, but his steel sword hangs on his belt and Jaskier knows he has at least three knives hidden somewhere beneath the mess. He looks older, and more exhausted than Jaskier has ever seen him. 

What is most curious is his companion. He can’t be more than fourteen, but why would Geralt have a young boy with him? He wears a loose shirt and worn trousers, and a cap covers his head. He looks up at Jaskier from under a too-big cloak, and he’s struck by all too familiar emerald eyes. There is only one green-eyed fourteen-year-old who could possibly be following a Witcher. A Cintran princess thought lost to the world. 

He meets Geralt’s gaze and they have a quick nonverbal conversation over her head, Geralt confirming his suspicions of her identity with a curt nod. The ease and familiarity of their communication digs like a knife into Jaskier’s gut. 

“We were hoping you could...” Geralt pauses, and Cirilla wastes no time in digging an elbow into his side. “We were hoping you could help us.”

“Help you.” He repeats, just to make sure he heard correctly. Not at all because asking had made Geralt’s face contort in ways Jaskier hadn’t thought possible. 

Geralt sounds off a grunt and a short nod, which he supposes he should have expected from the Witcher. 

“What kind of help do-” Jaskier is cut off by a door banging open down the hall, and the loud sounds of students spilling into the walkways. Geralt curls a protective arm around Cirilla’s shoulders, tucking her against his side and out of sight of any passing students. 

“We shouldn’t talk here. The University is safe enough, but walls have ears, and you carry precious cargo.” He nods towards Cirilla. “Right then. Help. You need to go to Number 6 Cheeseman Street. Tell Beatrice that you’re friends of Julian. Here, take this,” He tugs the heavy silver signet ring off his middle finger and holds it out to Geralt, “So she knows I sent you.”

“Who’s Julia- Wait. You’re not coming with us?” Confusion is evident on Geralt’s face, and the knife in Jaskier’s gut just cuts deeper. 

_You’re doing it again_ says the cruel voice in his head, _You’ll give and he’ll take until there’s nothing left of use to him. And then he’ll run off with his sorceress and his child while you wither and die like the weak pathetic mortal man you are._

“You came at the end of this class, Geralt, but I do have another one today. Funny, how schools work on a non-Witcher-centric timetable, isn’t it?” Geralt looks reasonably chastised, and Jaskier can’t help but feel a spark of vindication at that. “I have responsibilities here that I can’t just abandon. Go and wait for me. Bea will take care of you, and you’ll be safe there.”

* * *

Geralt watches Jaskier turn on his heel and walk back into his classroom with a feeling akin to longing in his gut. He hadn't realized how much he had been missing the bard until he was standing in front of him. He was struck with the sinking feeling that their friendship may not have survived the dragon mountains after all.

“Here,” He grunts, passing Ciri the signet ring. If he’s disturbed by this new, different Jaskier he doesn’t show it. He can't show it, not around Ciri. She needs him, and he would die before failing her. Geralt knew Jaskier might have still been upset after their disastrous parting, but the changes he saw in his old friend were not what he had expected. He wore somber clothes, had shorter silver swept hair, and no open smile; the man who had come out of that classroom didn’t seem much like the Jaskier he remembered. 

They collect Roach at the front gates, and begin the trek towards Number 6 Cheeseman Street. Ciri is quiet as they walk, toying the ring between her fingers. It’s been a long year, and Geralt knows she’s more tired than he is. He leads her through busy city streets, keeping her tucked close between him and Roach, finally coming upon the quieter richer streets favored by nobles and the prissier academics. Of course Jaskier would know someone here. 

They reach Number 6, and Geralt pauses and situates Ciri half behind him before he rings the bell. It’s another minute before the door is opened. 

“Yes?” An older woman asks. She’s short and stout, her more-grey-than-brown hair pulled back into a neat bun. There’s a softness to her, a kindness around the eyes, even as she frowns warily at them. She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman Jaskier normally fell into bed with, but it’s entirely possible the bard’s tastes had changed. 

“Are you Beatrice?”

“I am. Can I help you with something?”

Geralt motions to Ciri, who holds Jaskier’s signet ring out to the woman. “We’re friends of Julian’s,” Ciri says, and Geralt can see the older woman softening at the sight of both the ring and the child. She inspects the ring for a short moment, giving a long sigh and muttering something about bringing home strays before stepping aside to let them in. 

Beatrice is a force of nature, and it isn’t long before Geralt and Ciri have both been bathed, scrubbed, changed into clean clothes, and settled at the kitchen table with bowls of hearty stew and fresh brown bread. Roach is taken two houses down to be stabled. Bea, as she insists they call her, assures him she’ll be well taken care of. Their bags are brought back to the house and settled in their connecting rooms. 

This is all done in the span of an hour, and it’s all Geralt can do to just let it happen. The woman doesn’t seem any particular threat, though he has put an idle thought towards what happens when whatever lord of the house shows up. He knows Jaskier has friends in all sorts of places, but he doesn’t know of any noble who would be happy to find an unknown Witcher at his table. 

They’re halfway through their second helping of stew when Geralt hears the front door open, and an even tread making its way toward the kitchen. A moment later, Jaskier appears in the doorway. He looks over them both with a sharp eye, and Geralt feels strangely vulnerable under his gaze. 

“Here you are, dear,” Bea hands Ciri another large slice of bread for her soup, and then passes another to Geralt. “Get in here,” She orders, and Ciri’s gaze snaps up, just noticing another has joined them. “I’ll not be bringing you supper to your room later, you’ll eat here with your guests.” It’s not a negotiation. Jaskier grins, holding up his hands in a sign of peace. 

“Yes ma’am.” He sinks into the chair at the head of the table, and Bea puts down his own bowl of stew and bread. “I should have warned you, Witcher, Bea does have a tendency to over feed her guests; you and your companion are bound to roll away from the table.” Jaskier winks at Ciri over his bowl, and the girl offers a small smile in return. 

“I am sorry dear, in all the commotion we were never properly introduced.” Ciri stills, and her gaze shifts to Bea in the corner before flicking back to Geralt. “Bea,” Jaskier calls out when he realizes her worry, “Would you mind giving me and my guests the room?” The housekeeper huffs but leaves, with a stern warning to Jaskier about what will happen if he lets the bread burn. It’s only when Jaskier can no longer hear her footsteps that he turns back to Ciri. “I admire your caution, little one. An important skill to learn when one travels with a Witcher. I wish you no ill will, and I can promise that no harm will come to you in this house.” 

Ciri looks back to Geralt for confirmation, and he gives her a short nod. Jaskier feels a mild pull of hurt at the familiarity of their silent conversation, and quickly tucks it away before either can notice. 

“Ciri,” She says quietly, sitting up just a little straighter as she does. “You can call me Ciri. But we use Fiona around everyone else.”

“Then perhaps you should remain Fiona during your stay here. I trust Beatrice with my life, and she’ll probably spoil you rotten as long as you let her, but it will be safer if she doesn’t know your true identity. Information is powerful, little one, but no one can let spill a secret they don’t know. I am very happy to see you safe here, Ciri.” He says her true name softly, and when she smiles at him the sight practically melts his heart. 

“Who owns this place?” Geralt interrupts, earning himself a scowl from Jaskier. “Not another lord you’re cuckolding?” 

“It’s a bit hard to cuckold oneself, dear, but I supposed I could give it the old college try.” He’s smiling and his tone is light, trying to mask any hurt at the dig. 

“What, this is yours?” Ciri asks, looking around the expansive kitchen. “Bea said it belonged to Master Julian, but Geralt said your name was Jaskier.” 

“Yes, well, it’s been over a year and she still refuses to drop the ‘master’ part. I did try and tell her it wasn’t necessary and then she got very offended and didn’t speak to me for three days.” Geralt is giving Jaskier his dopey-what-the-fuck-are-you-on-about look that once upon a time would’ve made his knees weak. Now it just makes him sad. 

“Well then, let me introduce myself properly. Or, reintroduce, as the case may be.” He stands and bows low to Cirilla. “Professor Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, formerly known as the Bard Jaskier, at your eternal service.” When he adds an extra flourish Ciri giggles, and the sound tugs at his heart.

Geralt is watching him with a frown, and Jaskier meets it with a raised eyebrow himself. 

“You never said you were a Viscount.” 

“You never asked,” Jaskier points out, folding himself back into his seat, “I’ve told plenty of other people my name. Truly, twenty odd years and it never seemed strange to you that a woman would name her honest to gods son _Buttercup_? It’s hardly my fault you weren’t paying enough attention.” Geralt opens his mouth to retort, so Jaskier shifts his attention back to Ciri. “It’s very good to have you here, little one. I came to sing to you a few times for your birthday, though you were quite young then, so I don’t expect you’d remember.”

“No, I remember you. A little, at least.” She pauses, tilting her head to think, “I remember grandmother didn’t like that grandfather had invited you.You brought me a carved wolf, but grandmother screeched and I wasn’t allowed to play with it. I didn’t know why. I liked your songs, especially the one about the lion cub.” 

Jaskier laughs. “Yes, while Eist and I had a friendship of sorts, I can’t say your grandmother was overly fond of me. I think she worried I would tell you stories of a mighty Witcher who would one day come to claim you. Perhaps a wolf was a little too on the nose.” He grows somber, and reaches out to cover her small hand with his. “They were good people, your family. I am sorry they are gone.” He squeezes her hand, and gives the princess a reassuring smile that she returns, albeit shakily. “I admit I worried for you, when I heard of Cintra’s fate. It makes me very happy to see you safe here with Geralt.” 

Jaskier can feel Geralt’s gaze on him, but he does not meet it. They finish their meal together, and Ciri warms to Jaskier quickly. He jokes and trades silly stories with her, Geralt grunting or adding short corrections to the ones about their adventures together. Soon enough Ciri is falling asleep in her stew. Jaskier sends her up to bed, bidding her goodnight and watching as she ascends the stairs to her room. 

Geralt is still sitting at the kitchen table, watching Jaskier. His gaze is careful, his eyes follow Jaskier as the man collects two cups and a bottle of wine. 

“I assume you still drink,” He says, setting a cup down for Geralt before sliding into a chair. He pours them both glasses before sitting back with a heavy sigh. “Go on, then. You’ve got that look in your eye. Does the mighty Witcher Geralt of Rivia have something to say?” It was much easier to keep his tone level with Cirilla there. Now he can’t keep the bitterness from his words, and they leave a bad taste in his mouth. He tries to wash it away with big gulps of wine, but it doesn’t help. 

Geralt grunts instead of a real answer, and Jaskier huffs a laugh into his cup. He drains it, and pours himself another. 

“You’re different.” It’s quiet, almost so quiet Jaskier can’t hear it over the crackling of the hearth but he does. 

“Yes, well, that is normally expected of us humans. Change. Personal growth. That sort of thing.” 

"Personal growth. Huh. I half expected you to offer to sing Ciri to sleep. Regale her with tales of the White Wolf."

Jaskier's answer is to huff a dark laugh into his cup and continue drinking with determination. At least he can be good at some things.

“Where’d you get the money for all this?” Geralt asks after a long silence. There’s a hint of accusation in his tone which Jaskier bristles at. 

“Fishing, technically. And taxes, I guess, you’d really have to ask my sister.” At Geralt’s confused look he sighs deeply before explaining. “I’m a Viscount of a coastal estate, Geralt. I make money by having other people fish and then taxing them for it. Is this really the first thing you ask me? Eighteen months and all you have is a question about my business practices?” 

Geralt doesn't answer, and that only helps to fuel the anger growing in his belly. The wine isn’t exactly helping, but he isn’t going to stop drinking it. They sit in silence, Jaskier drinking and Geralt watching him. After what feels like an eternity, Jaskier heaves a sigh and stands. 

“Right, well, if you’re not going to say anything I’m going to bed.”

“Jaskier, wait.” He almost doesn’t. He almost leaves, but that voice. It haunts his fucking dreams, and he can’t say no to it. But he doesn’t turn around. 

“It’s Julian, now, actually.” 

“Julian, then.” The voice is closer now, and Jaskier had forgotten how quietly his Witcher could move. A hand tugs at his shoulder, turning him back around to face Geralt. His face is doing something Jaskier had never seen before, and on anyone else he’d say it was regret. “I wanted to...” He trails off, and Jaskier tugs his arm out of Geralt’s grip. 

“If you have something to say, say it.” 

“Damnit, bard. You don’t make this easy,” The man growls out, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I am sorry. About what happened on the dragon mountain. About what I said. I was angry, and you were there. I didn’t mean it.” It’s more of an apology than Jaskier had thought Geralt would be capable of, but it does nothing to repair the gaping chasm between them. 

_He still needs things from you,_ the insidious voice in his head whispers, _Once you give him what he wants he’ll leave you. Haven’t you learned anything? He doesn’t care about you. You’re a burden to him. You don’t make this easy. How pathetic._

Jaskier offers Geralt a tight smile, taking a small step back. “The mountain is in the past. What happened there doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t need to worry, I understand what this is now. I’ll help you, and as soon as you’ve both rested and resupplied you’ll be on your way.” He says it with some amount of finality, as if that would make it any easier to get out. 

Jaskier will help Geralt, because there really isn’t any version of reality in which he wouldn’t. But he knows now not to make their arrangement out to be anything more than that; an exchange of goods and services. He owes Geralt more than his own life is worth, and helping him and his Child Surprise now is simply a way to pay back that debt. As long as he remembers the status quo he should come out the other side unscathed. 

“I bid you goodnight, Witcher.” Jaskier’s voice is steady when he speaks, thank all the gods for small mercies, and he’s almost halfway up the steps before Geralt’s reply reaches him.

“Goodnight, Julian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of you were so sweet in the comments, thanks for the well wishes! me and my mouth are doing much better, though i'm still on an applesauce and mashed potatoes diet for awhile longer. 
> 
> i really hope ya'll like this? at this point i've edited it to absolute death, so i just need to post it. there will ultimately be a happy ending, bc this is a fic about two people who love each other, they just need to figure that out. and they're both idiots who can't talk about their feelings, so its hard. 
> 
> ps. anyone who spots my tamora pierce ref gets all the bonus points this week


	4. Chapter 4

There is a twenty-seven-second stretch of time between when Jaskier wakes up and the exact moment he remembers he invited _Geralt of Rivia_ and his Child of Surprise Cirilla, the fucking _Lost Princess of Cintra,_ into his home. Of his own free will and with embarrassingly little prompting. Maybe, just maybe, if he stays in bed for a few moments longer his house guests will have magically disappeared. Geralt’s a Witcher and weird magical shit happens all the time, it’s possible. 

But then a door opens down the hall and the too heavy footsteps of decidedly-not-Bea and most-definitely-Geralt sound on the stairs, which seems fairly damning evidence for the ‘Geralt is still in his house and he is going to have to deal with that in a mature way’ side of things. And mature adults rise early and make pleasant conversation with their guests over breakfast. He leverages himself up with a groan and goes about getting himself ready for the day. 

Jaskier washes his face in the clean water Bea left out for him the night before, grateful for the cold as to shake off his morning apprehension. He dresses plainly in a off-white shirt, dark blue doublet, tawny-brown breeches with soft leather boots of the same color, and then spends possibly too long staring at his reflection in the glass before deeming the outfit acceptable. With a last fluff of his hair he makes his way downstairs, steadfastly not thinking about the heavy weight of nervousness clinging to him. 

At the ground floor landing he stops, hearing the soft murmur of a girl in the front room. He pushes open the door, and can’t help but smile at the sight that meets him. Ciri is curled up on the ledge in front of the window. Her bedspread is draped over her shoulders, and she has tucked it over Arthur next to her. The old dog looks smitten, basking in the attention as Ciri strokes soft fingers through his fur. 

“-And that’s when I found Geralt, or he might have found me, and then we found Yen together. Geralt said that we’re going somewhere high in the mountains. Have you ever been?” Arthur doesn’t answer, but that doesn’t seem to deter Ciri. “Me neither. I’m excited about the snow, though. Geralt said it’ll get as tall as him, but he might’ve been joking, it’s hard to tell with him.” 

“It’s all in the eyes,” Jaskier says, blatently forgetting that Ciri did not know she was being overheard, and then feeling terrible when it frightens her. The girl jumps nearly half a foot, whirling around to face Jaskier with a wild look in her eye, and nearly toppling off the ledge as she does. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He steps further into the room, hands held towards her with his palms up. She relaxes incrementally, tucking her blanket tighter around herself, but he can tell she’s still on edge. 

“Geralt and Arthur are much the same,” Jaskier says and takes a seat in a plush armchair a good few feet away, letting her have her space. “Not particularly verbose, either of them, but good listeners.” He offers a smile which she returns. “There were some days when we were traveling I don’t believe Geralt said more than two words to me. But he didn’t mind if I talked,” _Liar,_ the voice in his head hissed, “And I knew he was listening.” _What nonsense are you filling her head with?_ “But joking, that’s all in the eyes. I didn’t even notice it until he’d done it a few times, but the corners of his eyes crinkle when he’s laughing, even if his mouth looks the same. Best way to know a Witcher, my dear: study the eye crinkles.” 

Ciri regards him for a long moment, head tilted to the side in thought. _Just like Geralt, isn’t it?_ _Would he like the lie you’re spreading?_

“Did you sleep out here all night?” He asks, finding her gaze far too searching for his comfort level. 

“No, I uh-” She pauses, and her fingers resume their petting through Arthur’s fur, “I couldn’t sleep. I have dreams, sometimes, that aren’t very friendly. I saw him here when I went up to bed last night, so I thought he might still be here. I meant to go back up, but I liked watching the people. I missed the city.” It’s a quiet admission, but Jaskier understands. There’s a difference between city quiet and middle of nowhere quiet. Insects, birds, animals, cannot match the ever-present hum of a city. Growing up in a castle is much the same; there’s always someone awake, some human making noise somewhere. The absence of that can be jarring, and Jaskier well remembers his many sleepless nights under an open sky. 

Jaskier lets her be, watches her watching the world wake up. He leaves after a long moment, casting a backward glance at Ciri and her companion. She has resettled them with Arthur stretched over her lap, her fingers scritch-scritching against his head, leaning cross legged against the wall of the window seat, a tired and lost look in her eye. 

He takes the stairs to the kitchen two at a time, resolving to bring Ciri some breakfast at least, but stops short before he reaches the last step.

“My horse.” He hears Geralt say, voice rough and worn. It seems both his house guests are in need of recuperation. 

“Oh, yes, I had Erik take her two houses down to the Roiche home. After Master Julian helped their son get into the University they’ve given us use of their stables when we have the need. I can send for him or-” 

“I’ll take him, Bea. I think we both know Erik won’t be among the living for a few hours yet.” They both startle at the arrival of Jaskier, Geralt’s face dropping into a scowl and he knows it’s because Geralt didn’t hear his arrival.“Bea, Fiona slept poorly, she’s in the front room with Arthur now. Will you bring her some toast with butter and jam, and maybe a cup of your sleepy tea?” 

Bea tuts something about poor dear girls and bustles off to prepare her meal, setting the kettle to boil, slicing the bread, pulling this bottle and that jar down from the pantry, all with expert skill honed over her years in the kitchen.

“Who’s Arthur?” Now Geralt’s scowl is about something entirely different. “I don’t like leaving Fiona with a man I don’t know, Ja- Julian.”

“Well good, because it’s a _dog_ Geralt, good gods. Although,” He pauses to consider, smirk firmly in place, “Watching you try to fight the ten pound dog might be entertaining. We should consider it as an afternoon activity. I bet Fiona’d like it.” He ignores Geralt’s warming growl and turns on his heel quickly to hide his grin at provoking such a reaction. 

“ _Julian._ The horse.” Ooh, scary voice. A look over his shoulder confirms he has on his scary face as well. 

“Yes, yes, c’mon, then. It’s rude to keep a lady waiting.” Jaskier leaves without bothering to check if Geralt is following him, but he can feel the Witcher’s eyes on him as they leave the house. He guides them down the sleepy street a short ways, coming to a stop at a gated alley between two houses. He unlocks it with a key from his belt purse, and leads Geralt down a narrow path opening into a small courtyard with a small but well built stable tucked in behind the residence. 

Roach is alone in the stall, and she lets out a nicker at the sight of friends. Jaskier approaches slowly, hand held out flat for her to sniff. He’s known multiple Roaches over the years, but all the mares have seemed to have the same bite-first policy when it came to unsanctioned touching. 

“Hello, you brave, beautiful creature. Do you remember me?” Roach butts her head into his chest, and he huffs a laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes. I’ve missed you.” He whispers it like a secret as he strokes a hand down her velvet soft muzzle. He traces his fingers across the delicate white markings on her face with a soft reverence. He’d liked every previous Roach well enough, but this was the only one who’d ever returned his affections. It may have had something to do with the treats he’d fed her any time he thought Geralt wasn’t looking. 

“She missed you, too.” Geralt’s voice from behind makes him jump, and Jaskier realizes he has quite forgotten they had an audience. “She was mad at me for a week after- well, after. Didn’t like that you were gone, kept trying to get into my pockets for treats.” His voice is low and rough, like he’d been speaking the whole night, and Jaskier does not turn to meet his gaze. “You always said she had better sense than me. Think you might’ve been right about that.” A pause, a clearing of the throat, and then the graze of fingertips at his elbow. “I think you might’ve been right about a few things, actually.” 

“Oh? Twenty two years and I might’ve been right about ‘a few things’?” Jaskier turns and instantly regrets the move as it brings him chest to chest with a too-close Geralt. “How-” His throat is suddenly very dry and really, when did Geralt get this close? The man hates unnecessary physical contact. Jaskier folds his arms over his chest to hide his shaking hands before clearing his throat and trying again. “How magnanimous of you, Witcher. Tell me, which things was I right about?” 

“Fiona, for one. Whenever you tried to broach the subject on the Path I shut you up, or just left you somewhere. That was unfair of me.” Geralt’s brow furrows, his head tilts to the side, and the way that alone tugs at Jaskier’s heart is wildly unfair. How can he be so endearing even now? “That was when I started pushing you away, I think. After Cintra. I knew you went back there, that you’d seen her and I couldn’t...” He trails off, and the silence stretches between them.

“Never knew you to be the introspective type.” It’s said quietly and mostly directed at Roach, but he knows Geralt will hear him. 

“Yen might’ve had something to say about it all last time we were together.” Cue blood rushing in his ears, a pressure in his head, a percussive beat sounding out _Yen Yen Yen Yen Yen_ against his skull. “She didn’t like it when I told her what had happened. What I said. She’s the one who suggested finding you here on our way to Kaer Morhen. So I could apologize.” 

“So all this is just you doing as your witch tells you. Makes sense, I’ve never known you to be so acquiescent to anyone else.” He can’t keep the bitterness from his voice, and it sours on his tongue even as he says it. He should have known Geralt was back with Yennefer. That’s what he did; she would swann in with some magical adventure and he would drop everything to follow her, and then when their dual stubbornness would come to a head and she’d leave him in a fit of righteous anger he would trail back to Jaskier to start the game all over again. And Jaskier would _let him,_ the absolute fool, every time. “Huh, introspective and obedient. I knew I should’ve done a silver test when you showed up at my door.”

Hurt passes over Geralt’s face and he draws back, eyes darting across Jaskier’s face. He’s still for a moment before he reaches into his boot, bringing out a small silver dagger. He presses it to the skin of his forearm for a long moment before holding out the hilt to Jaskier. “If you’re unsatisfied, feel free to test me with whatever you like, however many times you like. I’m no doppler and no trick, Jask.” 

“My name is Julian,” He snaps, before looking down at the knife in his hand. At the sight of it his eyes widen, and a weight drops onto his chest.

Jaskier grasps the hilt in a shaking hand, testing the familiar strength in his grip. He knows this knife. Geralt gave him this knife when he turned twenty-five. There were buttercups carved into the blade, and he’d fancied it as a lover’s gift back when he still let himself believe such nonsense. Silver for monsters. It had been one of the things left in Geralt’s pack when Jaskier fled the mountain top.

“Why do you have this?” He croaks out, swallowing against the tightness in his throat before trying again. “Why would you keep this?” He tries to push it back into Geralt’s hand but the Witcher refuses. 

“It was a gift, freely given. It belongs to you.” Geralt closes the distance between them again, gaze earnest and utterly heartbreaking in its sincerity. _Fool us once shame on him, fool us a hundred thousand times? By then you do not play a fool, you are one. A weak, sad, fool who falls for the same trick every time._

“You- you can’t do this again. Geralt, I won’t do this again.” Because suddenly he’s drowning in it, in the warm glow of Geralt’s undivided attention and it burns inside. And maybe it’s a good burn but all the good is drowned out by the anger-sadness-confusion-desperation playing in his chest. 

“Do what?”

“ _This._ ” He gestures wildly between the two of them. “This thing you do when she rejects you and you come to me so I can sing your praises and make you feel cared for, which I’ll do because I am an absolute _glutton_ for punishment and unavailable men, but it’s just until you get sick of me or she calls for you.” Jaskier turns his back, burying his head in Roach’s neck to avoid the struck look on Geralt’s face. “It’s- it’s _not fair_ , Geralt. It’s just not fair. And I can’t do it again.” 

It’s a long time before either man speaks. Jaskier can feel the warmth of Geralt at his back, but keeps his head planted firmly against Roach. Finally, he feels Geralt reach out and skim his spine with soft knuckles. Then, hands on his waist, softly pulling him back from the horse and turning him against a firm chest. He tucks his face against Geralt’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent and hating himself for how safe it feels. Geralt’s arms wrap around him, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other circled around his waist. He’s never been held with such reverence and it takes his breath away. 

“Not again, Jask. I promise.” It’s words rumbled from the mouth by his ear, and it sends a shiver down his spine. “I promise this time will be different.” Geralt says with such conviction, Jaskier almost believes him. Almost. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are almost done with the boys being at odds, i just enjoy pain
> 
> here is my thing about yen: i don't love her, but i do have to write her. i hope i didn't totally blow that? i want to make it clear- yen isn't the bad guy. geralt does a poor job of balancing his relationships, and i don't really see his and yen's as a healthy one, but she isn't the villain or anything. even in jaskier's narrative of how the cycle between the three of them works, it's really geralt who he's upset with. 
> 
> so, i really hope i didn't do yen dirty. lmk what y'all think!


	5. Chapter 5

After the anger burns off. After the stink of shame surrounds him. After he realizes that there will truly be no coming back from this; that neither Yennefer or Jaskier will ever forgive him. After he says quite possibly the cruelest and stupidest things he could have thought to say. When he is at what he believes is his lowest point. That’s when he finds what remains of Jaskier’s lute. And finds that he can be dragged so much lower. The pride of Kaer Morhen, the great White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, is brought to his _fucking knees_ by the shattered remnants of an Elven lute. 

Jaskier loves this lute. He is protective to the extreme. He almost started a brawl once because some loud mouthed drunk spilled half his ale over the instrument and then when he claimed it wasn’t even Elven Jaskier had decked him and Geralt had to bodily drag him out of that particular tavern before the man's friends rallied. 

The once-fond memory drags over Geralt like sharp rock, and he drops to his knees by the pieces. If the lute went off the side of the mountain, what happened to the man? Jaskier wouldn’t willingly let someone toss it. Was he hurt? Bleeding out somewhere and he’ll never know? He looks around the area but sees no bright flash of red leather to indicate a bard fell here. 

Geralt snatches the biggest shard of lute and scents it, but all he gets from it is sweat, linseed oil, and salt. Wait. He sniffs another piece. Tears, and then the acrid scent of despair. Everything slides into place and Geralt very much wishes he could go back to thinking Jaskier was dead somewhere because even that was better than knowing this; that he had hurt Jaskier to the point of such pain and rage as to destroy a lute the man had once called _the symbol of our lasting friendship Geralt- don’t make that face, I know we’re friends now, you said so last week when you thought I was delirious from the flu._ That he can hear Jaskier’s voice so clearly in his head is a twin comfort and pain that burrows deep into his chest. Jaskier won’t forgive this one, won’t let Geralt come back after the shit he’s just pulled and Geralt doesn’t blame him. He must resign himself to this, to his memories of the bard instead of the warm breathing man by his side. 

He allows himself a scant minute to sit in that; in his shame, and regret, and anger before taking a deep breath and righting himself. He shoves down those feelings until they’re just a gray wash of the blaze they had been. Feeling nominally more himself he goes to leave, tucking a small piece of the fine lacquered wood into his pocket before he can think better of the action. 

The light is just beginning to fade when he finally makes it back down to the camp where Roach is waiting for him. She is displeased at having been left for so long, and shows it by ramming him hard in the chest. Twice. He lets her. 

A month later sees Geralt in some shitty backwater tavern when he finds Jaskier’s knife. He’s searching through his packs trying to find some damned potion ingredient when his hand falls on the familiar sheath. It’s not the first item of Jaskier’s he’s found in his bags. First there was the half filled notebook with the soft vellum pages that Geralt had absolutely not run gentle fingers over. Then the heavy winter cloak Jaskier had always insisted go in Geralt’s pack since _there is precious little space on my back, Geralt, and precious more on Roach’s, it’s not even as if you have to carry it yourself you oversized child_ and Geralt had certainly not spent the evening breathing in the ever slowly fading smell of Jaskier. 

They had spent time apart, gone years without seeing one another, but Geralt knows this time is different. And every possession he finds in his bags is another small, tiny, incremental piece of Jaskier he is allowed to have. But the knife, oh that knife. Geralt remembers Jaskier’s twenty-fifth birthday well. They had gotten spectacularly drunk at a tavern in Novigrad and when Jaskier looked at him with his bright eyes and wide smile it had taken all Geralt’s strength not to drag the bard into his lap and kiss him senseless in front of everyone. When they finally stumbled back to their room Geralt had pressed the knife into Jaskier’s hand with a promise to teach him to use it. Jaskier made a joke about _sheathing things_ and Geralt had shoved him towards his bed with a muttered curse and a firm order to get some sleep. 

The memory of how Jaskier had looked that night drops him farther down the pit of shame and regret in him that seems to grow ever more each passing day. Jaskier always seemed so much younger when he was asleep, which was what always stopped Geralt before he could start anything; the reminder of how young his companion really was. Splayed out on his stomach, miles of soft skin on display. He had discarded his shirt and doublet with great difficulty; drunk Jaskier cannot work a button to save his life, much to Geralt’s eternal amusement. He glowed in the warm light from the hearth and Geralt had to physically stop himself from kissing him for the second time that night. Jaskier’s mouth dropped open, he let out soft beginnings of a snore, and his hand curled tighter around the knife clutched to his chest. The knife that Geralt gave him to keep him safe. The knife that was a promise of the only kind Geralt could give. The knife that said _I will protect you to my dying breath_ and both of them knew it. 

And now the knife was here. In his hand. In a shitty backwater tavern in the middle of nowhere and not safely tucked into his bard’s boot. It had only been in his bag that day because the pommel had come loose and Jaskier had decided Geralt’s packs were somehow safer than his own until they could get to a metalsmith. Holding the blade now, it occurs to him that this really does mean the end of their friendship. The other items he was able to pass off- Jaskier was in a rush, of course he wouldn’t remember the extra inkpot tucked into Geralt’s potions bag. But the knife. Leaving it could only mean one thing; Jaskier was done. Their friendship was over, he would get no second chance. That moment on the mountain, that was his last moment with Jaskier, and he would have to reconcile himself with that someday. Not this day, though. 

Geralt is alone after that, and he pretends he likes it that way. He avoids cities and large towns when he can. If a bard starts singing he leaves the room- especially if it’s that damned song. When he hears of Nilfguaard’s threat he makes his way towards Cintra, hoping to take the child to safety. It does not go as planned. Meeting his Child Surprise in a forest and then immediately being asked about his ex was not part of any plan. But the only thing to do is move forward, so he does. 

They stay at the farm for another night before they head off with a small bag of provisions from the farmer’s wife. Geralt worries about Cirilla’s ability to keep up, but she’s surprisingly agile for a princess, and they make good time. He’s taking them towards Kaer Morhen because he has no idea where else he could take Cirilla where she would be safe, but also because he has no idea how to raise a child and Vesemir has at the very least some amount of experience in that area. 

She’s quiet at first, but he can see her starting to relax around him. She starts asking questions on day two, and he makes an effort to be more verbal for her. Talking isn’t his skillset, and he can practically hear Jaskier in his head saying _Use your words, dear Witcher, we don’t all communicate solely in grunts and well timed curses_ . As she warms up to him she begins to talk more, and like another young human he knew, once she starts she doesn’t stop. She asks about him, and Yennefer, and did he know her parents, and when did he meet Mousesack, and did he really meet a Selkie like in the song? Geralt makes an effort to add details to the stories for her and when he does he can hear Jaskier in his ear, _Adjectives, my good fellow, describing words! It’s what makes a story come alive._ She isn’t always satisfied, and it isn’t long before a story of his comes under some criticism.

“So, if I’m following, Jaskier was a loyal friend for over twenty years and then you shouted terrible things at him because... Yennefer dumped you when she learned you bound your destinies together without her consent? And now neither of them are going to speak to you again?” They’re camping somewhere in Temeria when Ciri finally bullies the whole story out of Geralt. She’s across the fire from him with her chin resting on her tucked up knees, and he can see her nose crinkling like it does when she thinks he’s being stupid, which is often.

“Yes, essentially.” His voice sounds rough even to his ears, and he clears his throat before starting again. “But also no. It was more complicated than that. It wasn’t as simple as Yennefer dumping me, we weren’t really- She was- she is... more to me. Than just that.” He finishes lamely, coming to the sudden realization that he truly does not know what Yennefer is to him. Assuming he ever convinces her to speak to him again, which doesn’t seem particularly likely this decade. Important, yes. A friend, he’d hope, even if he knows the less-than-slim chances of that. Not an antagonist, surely; Yenn would never give him the satisfaction of her attention, even if it was to turn him into a toad or something equally unseemly. 

“You love them both."

It is not a question, and for a long moment Geralt considers ignoring it and telling Ciri to get some sleep. What kind of answer is he supposed to give her? Green eyes meet gold across the fire and Geralt is held fast by her stare. He finds himself wanting to be open with her; wanting to be different for this wide-smiling, bright, curious young woman who isn’t afraid of him. So he considers carefully before answering her. 

“Yes. In a,” He pauses, letting out a puff of a harsh air between his front teeth before continuing, “In different ways, I loved them then. And in different ways I love them now.” 

“That sounds complicated, Geralt.” She pauses before shaking her head to steel herself and pushing on. “Yennefer was in my dreams again. I think the dreams are telling us to find her. They told me to find you, and now they’re telling me we have to find her.” Her voice has an edge of command running through it, and it’s a tone he knows she must have learned at her grandmother’s knee. “And I think you need to apologize to her. And Jaskier. Especially Jaskier. He was your best friend, and best friends don’t hate you forever just because you yelled at them, that isn’t how it being best friends works.” 

Geralt blinks, and it strikes him then that while she’d called Jaskier his best friend, he’d never actually said it himself. He’d said he was a bard, a traveling companion, but not a friend. He meets her gaze and finds she’s been watching him with her chin raised, ready to fight back if needs must. She looks the princess she is, for all her dirty clothes, tangled hair, and battered cloak. They do need to find Yennefer, she’s right, but Geralt isn’t so amenable to the second idea. 

“We’ll start our search tomorrow, then. Time to rest, Cirilla.” She groans a complaint, but tucks herself into her bedroll laid beside his own with little fuss. He stays awake awhile longer to watch her sleep, and the persistent warm feeling in his chest only grows. 

Finding Yennefer, as it turns out, is much easier than Geralt anticipated. They’re in a larger town than Geralt would like, but needs must. Ciri’s cloak is more hole than fabric at this point, and her boots were made for palace life, not tramping around in the muck and the wilds. They’re low on coin, as Geralt’s been hesitant to take contracts when it could draw unwanted attention. Luckily Jaskier never described Eskel or Lambert in song, and it’s fairly easy to convince anyone who recognizes him that all Witchers have white hair and he isn’t the one from the song. He finds them a quiet corner of a quiet pub, tucking Ciri between him and the back wall and mostly hiding her from view. They’re almost done with their supper of stew and brown bread when the door blows open and with it the comforting, or possibly heart wrenching, smell of lilac and gooseberries. 

Geralt’s gaze snaps up, and meets her familiar violet eyes above the crowd. He sees her see him, sees the immediate frown his presence produces. He leans back, and watches that frown turn to a genuine look of surprise at the presence of Cirilla. Cirilla, who noticed Geralt grow still, who follows his gaze to the beautiful woman sliding into the seat opposite them. 

“You’re Yennefer,” She says before Geralt can even open his mouth, and maybe that’s a good thing. “You’re in my dreams. We’ve been looking for you, so Geralt can apologize.” He takes that back, letting Ciri speak was a terrible decision. 

“Apologize? Well, that hardly sounds like our White Wolf.” She meets his eye, and the corner of Yennefer’s mouth ticks up in a sharp smile. Her attention shifts back to Ciri, and her expression softens almost immediately. “What do your dreams tell you, little lion cub?”

“That we had to find you. That us being together was important. All of us.” At that she looks up at Geralt with a frown. “Including Jaskier. That all four of us were tied somehow, and for what has to happen next, we need to be together.” 

Yennefer is quiet for a long time. She watches Ciri with a calculating gaze that the teenager returns solemnly. “What has to happen next?” She asks eventually, leaning back in her chair. 

“I don’t know. They aren’t- it’s not a conversation, I can’t ask questions. It’s like,” She pauses, and Geralt can see her biting at her inner lip while she thinks, “It’s like feelings, and some of them I know what they are, and some I don’t. Like the feeling to find Geralt, or you and Jaskier. I just know that’s what we need to do. But I don’t know what we’re supposed to do now that we’ve found you, and I don’t know what happens next.” 

Violet eyes meet green across the table and Geralt watches something pass between them, but he isn’t quite sure what. Finally Yennefer nods, and the air around them relaxes. The rest of the night passes quickly, and it’s too soon that Ciri begins to slump against his shoulder, eyelids drooping. He shakes her awake softly and sends her up the stairs to their room. 

Yennefer watches him carefully from across the table even as he orders them both something strong to drink. She says nothing as a bottle and cups are brought, pouring herself a drink and downing all of it in one go. 

“You’re not forgiven, Geralt.” Her voice is worn, and suddenly can Geralt see just how exhausted she really is. “And I have no interest in restarting any kind of relationship with you.”

“I know. And I’m not asking to be, Yen. I don’t-” He breaks off with a huff, trying to say the right words and feeling like an utter failure. “ _Fuck_ , I’m not good at this.” He takes a deep breath before trying again. “I didn’t want you to be hurt, and in trying to help I just made it all worse. I didn’t intend to bind you, or trap you, or trick you, though I understand that what I intended and what happened are different. I’m sorry, Yennefer. I want you in my life, even if we’re not together, you... you are important to me, and I value your friendship.” The words feel foreign even to his ear, and he feels strangely exposed for all they’re tucked into the back corner of an inn with a majority of patrons either asleep upstairs or under the bar. 

Yennefer is watching him with a calculating gaze, and he finds himself dropping his head under the heat of it. “That girl is good for you. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that many words in one go. Or one week.” She lets out a huff of sad laughter, shaking her head and taking a drink. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you, or that we’re friends again. That girl has power, Geralt, real power. I can practically _smell_ the chaos coming off her, and if I can so can someone else. You need to get her somewhere safe, and fast.” 

“Hm. We’re heading North, into Kaedwen.” No one’s around to hear, but he still doesn’t like saying their destination aloud. “You’re welcome to travel with us. 

She’s shaking her head. “I have business to finish before I can disappear in the mountains all winter. You should travel first to Oxenfurt, then East to Kaedewen. If you take the Dezernov road you’ll-”

“Wait, stop, why would I go to Oxenfurt?” 

“Because that’s where Jaskier is.” Yennefer says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Your Child Surprise is right, Geralt, it’s important we’re together. _All of us_ , your ridiculously enamoured companion included. Why isn’t he with you, anyway? I thought you two were tied at the waist.”

“I haven’t seen him since the dragon hunt” Geralt finally manages, barely above a growl. “And we’re not going looking for him. He’s better off far away from this mess.” 

“What happened between you two, lovers quarrel?” She’s teasing, but it stings, and he pours them both another cup before downing his in one go. 

“Fuck off, Yenn.”

“Tell me what happened, Geralt.” Her tone brokers no argument and he desperately wants to avoid starting one, so he tells her what happened on the mountain and the terrible things he said. When he’s finished she does not look happy, and it’s a long time before she says anything. 

“You’re going to find him.” She holds up a hand before he can protest. “He’s in her dreams, which means he’s important somehow. And since you’ve obviously forgotten this, let me remind you that Nilfguaard is looking for _anyone_ with information about the two of you and that absolutely includes the man known as ‘the White Wolf’s bard’. They will hurt him for information, and he will give it.” He starts to defend Jaskier before she interrupts. “I don’t care how loyal a friend he is, I’ve seen how far they’re willing to go to get to her. It will not end well for our flamboyant friend.”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to him, and thinking of it now makes him physically ill. Of course Jaskier would be a target, the whole damn continent knows of their connection. Even now Geralt is still dragging him into danger. 

“I can’t Yenn. He won’t come, you know he won’t. He’s better away from me.”

“Are you fucking stupid? They will break him, Geralt. Into a million pieces, and if you ever get him back he will be a shell of what he was. Like it or not, he isn’t safe by himself.” He can hear the edge in her voice, the exhaustion and resignation and _fear_ , and not for the first time that night Geralt wonders just what had happened since he last saw her. “And you’re selling him short if you don’t think he’ll forgive you.”

“I told you what I said, Yenn, he won’t-”

“He’s known you for over two decades, I guarantee you’ve had stupider and crueler arguments. The only difference this time is that you need to be the one who apologizes first.”

She’s right, because Yennefer is almost always right, but he says nothing. They finish their drink in silence, but it’s not a tense quiet. When they’re done they make their way up to the room Ciri’s sleeping soundly in. Geralt gives Yennefer the second bed, laying out his pallet on the floor between the beds and the door. He watches as she falls asleep, and something deep inside him settles for the first time in over a year. In the morning they make plans to meet again in Yspaden in a few months' time, and then make the perilous trek to Kaer Morhen together. Yennefer gives Ciri a tight hug goodbye and Geralt realizes that somehow without him noticing the two had developed a fierce bond, and he’s glad to feel like there’s someone else to help care for her. He is graced with a short nod and an almost smile from the sorceress, which is more than he was expecting. When he’s packing up their room he finds a full coin purse and a note left on her bed. It’s written on parchment in her familiar script, just six words: _Find Professor Julian Pancratz, Oxenfurt University._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woooh that took longer than anticipated, thanks for being patient, folks! geralt's pov was very hard for some reason, and yenn was a hard nut to crack as well. i guess i jus hope i didn't fuck them up too badly? 
> 
> next week (she says with hope) we'll be back with our regularly scheduled jaskier pov and general guys in love with their kid and their dog and their old lady friend shenanigans 
> 
> let me know what you think in the comments! this is the longest fic i've ever written, so feedback is super helpful!


	6. Chapter 6

Jaskier spends what feels like an eternity wrapped up in Geralt’s arms. He hadn’t expected the embrace to last so long, but each time he goes to pull away Geralt makes a glorious growling sound and tightens his grip and really, how is Jaskier supposed to argue with that? He feels safe for what he realizes is the first time in a long time. Geralt’s scent hasn’t changed, is still the same leather-sword oil-horse-musk that is somehow intoxicating. So he tucks himself under his Witcher’s chin and just breathes, and to his amazement Geralt lets him- no, _wants_ him _,_ is holding him as if he’s important, and it warms him from the inside out.

“We should get back to the house,” Geralt says eventually, voice rumbling in his chest as he pulls back and looks the scant inch down at him. Jaskier steels himself for whatever pity might await him when he meets his gaze but there is none. Just a kind of calm fondness Jaskier hasn’t seen before. “I don’t like leaving Fiona alone for too long.”

“She’s fourteen, I think she can handle a hot mug on her own by now,” Jaskier mutters, not caring that Geralt can absolutely hear him, but he steps away all the same. 

Geralt grunts back, but Jaskier can tell he’s smiling. It’s all in the eyes crinkles, after all. “C’mon, say your goodbyes so we can go.” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes but does go give Roach one last pat, reminding her that she is _practically perfect in every way_ and _such a good horse_ and _better than Geralt_ and _it’s not as if he actually walks anywhere, unlike some very good horses I could name_ . Geralt’s smile grows to almost-visible-to-the-naked-eye, but he soon pulls Jaskier away with a muttered, _How many times do I have to tell you to stop trying to fuck my horse,_ and the exasperatedly fond look on his face makes Jaskier’s stomach swoop. 

He’s still angry. Still sad. Still doesn’t believe him, is still waiting for the moment Geralt will turn around and leave him alone in the dust like so many times before. It will hurt when he goes, surely, but at least this time Jaskier will be prepared for it. He’s built himself a life outside Geralt, his world won’t come to a screeching halt when he leaves. And maybe if Jaskier proves he can handle himself without his scary Witcher around, said scary Witcher would be more inclined to visit. But he does like this feeling. Walking side by side again, shoulders brushing companionably, how achingly familiar it all is. 

The front window is vacant when they pass, and Jaskier assumes Ciri’s gone up to bed courtesy of Bea’s sleepy tea. He’s surprised then to find the teen sat up on the countertop, potato in one hand and paring knife in the other. She has a look of fierce concentration on her face as she works carefully, the tip of her tongue clenched between her teeth. Bea is close by, up to her elbows in flour and wrestling with a shaggy bread dough while still keeping a close eye on both Ciri and the pot bubbling over the hearth; the woman is a master, and Jaskier stops to watch her with a smile on his face. 

“Geralt!” While he’d been distracted by the domestic scene, Geralt had come in behind him and was now crossing the room with the softest look Jaskier has ever seen on his face. 

“G’morning, cub.” Geralt presses a kiss to her temple, and Jaskier has to stop himself from staring; both at the pet name and the very public display of affection. Public being only two other people of course, but that was still rather public to Geralt of Rivia. Ciri must be used to the attention for she pays it no mind, which confounds him even more. “Julian said you didn’t sleep well. More of the dreams?” He tucks an errant lock of hair behind her ear and it’s the thoughtlessness of the motion that stands out to Jaskier. 

This is a kind of casual and easy affection he’d only seen- well, that he’d only seen with _him._ Usually in a liminal time; in a shared bed some fuzzy between awake and sleep, or after the sixth ale of a long night, pressed together in a dark corner of a tavern. And Geralt would sweep a hand across his, or press their knees together under the table, or curl a protective arm around his waist while they slept. Seeing that affection here, in the bright light of morning is something he wasn’t prepared for, and he takes a seat at the table lest his legs fail him. 

Ciri and Geralt are oblivious to his confusion; she’s showing him how her knife skills have improved, and he’s watching her with a kind of fond fascination Jaskier’s never seen before but finds he quite enjoys. He looks up suddenly, their eyes meet, and Geralt’s expression turns to something more Jaskier can’t even begin to place. This man who gives affection freely and without pause is not the Geralt familiar to him. 

It isn’t long before Bea finishes setting out a proper morning meal, and Jaskier can’t help but feel a crippling domesticity as they sit down to eat. Their breakfast is porridge with honey and cream, sausages, and the good brown bread that Bea has refused to ever share the recipe for, no matter how much coin Jaskier offers her. She doesn’t sit to eat, which doesn’t surprise him, but she does continue to work on whatever lunch is going into the pot over the hearth. 

It’s a good breakfast, and good company. Ciri does wonders towards greasing the conversation, and Geralt says more than a few grunts in passing, which Jaskier considers a monumental feat. But they came to him for a reason and needs must, so Jaskier steers the conversation back towards the business that brought them to his doorstep. 

“When you came to me at the University, you said you needed help. What kind? Money, clothes, food?” It’s blunt, but Jaskier would rather know now what the price for this visit will be. 

Geralt looks thrown for a moment before he answers. “All of the above. We’re heading North, towards Kaer Morhen. We need,” He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the actual _asking_ part of asking for help, “Money, yes, and winter clothes. Another mount. Fiona needs a better disguise; cutting her hair, dye maybe- maybe even for both of us.” He makes a face at that and Jaskier wants to laugh; Geralt always did love his hair. “We stand out, it makes us too easy to track. Nilfguaard is-” He cuts off, worried gaze wavering over Ciri, which she huffs at and continues in his place. 

“Nilgfuaard is hunting us. Me, technically. They’ve been tracking me since Cintra. And they’ve killed everyone who’s tried to help me.” She doesn’t meet either of their eyes. “They’ll hurt anyone to get to me. Geralt is taking us to Yspaden to meet Yennefer, and then to Kaer Morhen together where we’ll be safe.” Ciri is somber and serious for a girl her age, and Jaskier notices she tucks her hands into her lap out of view. 

His compassion for her is quickly overtaken by the creeping feeling of something cold sliding down his spine. _Poor stupid little Julian who never learns,_ the voice inside him taunts, _He has his child, has the great mage herself, what use is a washed up old bard to a Witcher? All he needs from you is money, he said it himself. That’s what this morning was,_ the idea twists around inside him and it hurts, physically hurts him to think it but he can’t stop, _Nothing genuine, just a way to keep poor stupid little Julian on his leash. He doesn’t- couldn’t actually care for you._

“Right well, ah-” Jaskier’s voice is hard to his own ears, so he clears his throat before trying again. “That shouldn't be any trouble. We should ah-” His mouth runs dry and he’s just trying to get through this as quickly as possible so he can flee and maybe hide from his houseguests for a good few hours in the tub. But no, he is a mature and reasonable adult who is pleasant to his houseguests and who does not cry in front of them. Geralt is watching him closely with an odd look on his face, and Jaskier feels uncomfortably seen. “We should armor you too, you’re no use to anyone at all as a Witcher with no armour and only one sword.” 

“Of no use to anyone at all?” Geralt rumbles, one annoyed eyebrow raised in Jaskier’s direction. 

“The last time I checked you can still bleed, O Great and Mighty Witcher, and that shirt you’re wearing wouldn’t stop a butter knife.” For a moment they sound like they used to, and it doesn’t shatter his heart at all to hear. He clears his throat, trying to force down the hard lump of familiarity threatening to choke him. “We can get you a mount easy enough. I assume you’ll want one more Fiona-sized?” He winks at Ciri and she grins. “That shouldn’t be an issue, I have friends at the horse market who owe me a favor. Or several, as the case may be. As for clothes, we can go today to the seamstress on-” 

“Pardon, Master Julian?” It’s Bea, a few paces away from the table. Jaskier knows she wouldn’t interrupt without cause, and gestures for her to continue. “You may want to dress the child down in things that look more travel-worn as to blend in. Fresh made clothes might fit well, but they’ll draw attention off the beaten path. I still have some of my Piotr’s things, I could fit them to her size easy enough. They’re a bit battered, but well made. She’ll need a new cloak though, I don’t think his will be warm enough for where you’re going.” 

“Bea, you are a blessing from the Gods,” Jaskier beams, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of that. Of course they shouldn’t buy new things, fresh clothes are like a beacon to bandits on the road. Stupid, stupid Jaskier. “Auntie, do you have anything we can dye Fiona’s hair with?” He sends Ciri a reassuring smile across the table. “Your hair is beautiful, little one, but your Witcher is right; it draws too many eyes to you.”

Bea considers for a moment before she nods. “I’ve got a walnut dye that should do for her, aye.” 

“Grand, you see to that, and I’ll go see a man about a horse. Huh. For the first time, possibly ever, I actually mean that.” He’s out of his chair and halfway across the room before he’s stopped by an oh-so familiar growl. 

“I’ll go with Julian.” 

“No,” He’s saying before he even turns around, “You’ll stay here with Fiona and get your hair colored.” Geralt looks like he’s about to argue so Jaskier beats him to it. “Or do you not remember that everyone on the continent is looking for you? If you’re not seen by a Nilfguaardian, you’re seen by a spy, or an informant, or some sad random asshole looking to score the reward purse. So you’ll be staying here, and getting your beauty treatment.” 

There’s a stunned little look on his face that makes Jaskier more pleased than it should. He leaves them there, sure Bea will keep them on track and out of trouble, and starts the walk down the street towards the horse markets. 

Jaskier wraps the heavy knitted scarf- a present from Bea on his last birthday- around his neck to keep out the first chills of autumn, but that does nothing to keep the ice from his heart. It began as a cool pinprick during breakfast, _Geralt is taking us to Yspaden to meet Yennefer, and then to Kaer Morhen together where we’ll be safe_ and has shifted into a sharp spike of _Yennefer, Kaer Morhen, safe_ that he doesn’t know what to do with. 

He remembers the first time he’d asked where Geralt went in winter. He’d been twenty-two, or maybe twenty-four, and as with most stories they’d been drunk. He had wanted to invite Geralt back to Oxenfurt with him, but then Geralt had told him of the crumbling Witcher’s fortress, and the brothers he met there each year. He understood, when Geralt said it was the Witchers sanctuary and not a place for troublesome bards; when they were out in the world, Witchers could never relax, never take a deep breath for fear of killing or being killed. Of course they would need a place without humans, without others, where they could be free for a few months a year. Jaskier was never hurt that Geralt did not share that place with him- if anything, he loved that Geralt had somewhere safe and warm to rest his weary bones each year. 

And Jaskier is a grown ass man, he will not begrudge a child being allowed to her father’s home but. But Yennefer. Jaskier knows about the sacking, he knows the last mages to set foot in Kaer Morhen were the ones who brought it crumbling down. If Geralt is bringing Yennefer that must mean they’re together. It will be Yennefer Geralt presents to his brothers, Yennefer who will walk the halls, explore the library, spend months curled up with her lover and their child and-

The honey-colored memory of their early morning embrace is souring in his mind; like black ink spilled over the image and corrupting it until there is nothing left but the acrid feel of Geralt’s arms around him and the burning knowledge that he was going to be left behind again. The promise of the morning means nothing now- Geralt will leave him for Yennefer like he always does, and Jaskier will let him like he always does, and the status quo will remain ever stable.

Jaskier should learn to say no when old not-friends show up at his doorstep, he really should. 

He quickens his pace- if he hurries the sale, he might be able to convince Filip to take an early lunch and they can get spectacularly drunk in the hayloft like stupid teenagers instead of doing their actual jobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miscommunication! you've gotta love it, and pain is a delight to write. i don't wanna drag out the angst too long, but i'm still gonna make geralt work for it
> 
> ok so real talk, i am terrible at both emotional and physical intimacy, which may have something to do with the amount of angst. so there's a possibility of some sexy times, but it all depends on if i can write it and not have it be too cringey. if i do i'll update the tags and rating. so lmk if that's something y'all are up for? 
> 
> your comments are all so sweet, thank you so much! i'm terrible at responding, but i do read all of them and then i blush and have to remove myself bc i have issues with positive emotion ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	7. Chapter 7

Days pass in the Pancratz household. 

When Jaskier returns from his overindulgence with Filip smelling like wine and horse and a sale well made he’s met with the results of their makeovers. Ciri’s hair has been chopped close to her head in the popular boy’s style and dyed a nutty brown. Dressed in the clothes from Bea’s son she looks the same as every other boy running around the city. Jaskier had almost mistaken her for Erik, their errand boy, much to Ciri’s delight. 

Bea gives Geralt an undercut, which surprises Jaskier both with how incredibly attractive it looks and Bea’s apparent skill at hairstyling. Geralt was less than enthusiastic about the change at first, but Jaskier catches sight of him playing with it more than once that evening and suspects the look is growing on him. He wears it half up with his hair tied in a bun at the back of his head, and it shouldn’t be attractive but it is and Jaskier hates him for it. 

Cirilla is absolutely smitten with the dappled gray mare Jaskier brings back for her, and names the mild-mannered mount Badger. If there’s a reason she refuses to share it, and Jaskier doesn’t ask. She’s smaller than Roach is, but strong and steady enough to haul their princess up the mountain. Roach is unenthusiastic about her new stable-mate to the extreme, but hasn’t actually bitten anyone. Yet. He is grateful for her restraint; it will be a much easier journey for them if Roach isn’t trying to stomp the gentler horse into the dust every chance she gets.

Jaskier goes to work each day at the University as he’s supposed to. He is distracted during lessons, finds himself losing his train of thought more than once. If his students notice his absentmindedness they don’t mention it, which he supposes he should appreciate. The advantage of a carefully crafted absentminded-slightly-eccentric professor is that if anyone does ask questions it’s easy enough to distract them with an impromptu recitation of one of the longer and more boring poems he knows until the student forgets they asked anything at all. It’s a system that works well enough, at least until one of the higher ups takes notice. Jaskier is hoping Geralt and Ciri are gone before anyone begins asking questions. 

He finds leaving Geralt and Ciri each morning is harder than he thought it would be, and realizes quickly, to some frustration, that it’s because he’s afraid Geralt won’t be there when he gets back. Geralt seems content to stay awhile which isn’t like him, and Jaskier finds himself waiting for the other shoe to drop. What else could Geralt want from him? His armour will be finished by the end of the week, Bea has been stockpiling enough jerky, nuts, and dried fruit to feed an army of Witchers, he has his money and clothing all ready to go at a moment's notice. What else could he need, and why would he stay this long? These are the kinds of questions that come to him in his office when he should be grading papers or planning lectures, not losing his head over a man he knows he can’t have. 

Jaskier returns home late on the fourth night to a dark house. He has a passing thought of the plate Bea will have left for him but his need for food is far overshadowed by his need for sleep. He is so tired he almost misses the murmured sounds coming from Ciri’s open door, but even exhausted he recognizes Geralt’s voice. He stops in the doorframe to take in the scene. The bedding has made it to the floor, as well as most of the pillows. Ciri would look to be asleep if it weren’t for the furrowed brow or the whimpers escaping her or the way she shifts and pulls on the bed trying to get away from something. Geralt is kneeling on the floor beside her head, fingers brushing through her hair, voice a low and constant murmur into her ear. 

“Geralt.” His Witcher’s head snaps up, and Jaskier is struck by the realization that he’s never managed to sneak up on him before. “What-?”

“She always had nightmares. Who wouldn’t, after what she saw in Cintra.” Geralt murmurs in answer to Jaskier’s barely asked question, eyes never leaving Ciri’s face. “This started six months ago. It’s not a natural sleep.” His voice sounds hoarse, like he’s been talking for hours. “It’s not- it doesn’t hurt her, not physically. She’ll be tired when she wakes up, hungry. But these dreams... She says they _tell her things_ , they give her feelings about what we’re supposed to do next. The dreams, they’re why we’re here. They told her we had to find you. But a Witcher is no match for a nightmare and I can’t- can’t do anything but watch.” 

The quiet admission that Geralt showed up at his door because of a scared child’s nightmare was not something he was capable of unpacking at that moment, so instead he said the first stupid thing that came to mind. “Would a lullaby help?” Geralt looks taken aback by the suggestion but nods towards the free spot on the other side of the bed which Jaskier takes. His eyes are wild and Jaskier can just see the desperation clinging to him. Ciri lets out another whine, and Geralt’s attention is pulled back to her in an instant. The worry on his face softens Jaskier’s heart, and he quickly looks away from the pair- he is here to do a job, to help Cirilla, not fawn pathetically over her father. Jaskier reaches out, wrapping her delicate hand in his own warm palm. He clears his throat before beginning to sing quietly. 

_Between the here, between the now_

_Between the North, between the South_

_Between the West, between the East_

_Between the time, between the place_

_From the shell_

_The song of the sea_

_Neither quiet nor calm_

_Searching for love again..._

_My love_

_Between the wind, between the waves_

_Between the sounds, between the shore_

_From the shell_

_The song of the sea_

_Neither quiet nor calm_

_Searching for love again_

_Between the storms, between the stone_

_Between belief, between the sea_

_I am between love_

Memories flood him, unbidden and unwelcome as he sings the familiar words. Memories of somewhere far away and long ago, of another frightened little girl and the song he would sing to her as she cried. Slowly, so incredibly slowly, Ciri’s movements begin to still. Jaskier sings on. Once through, then twice. He does not think of the sound of waves crashing on rock, or the smell of salt air, or the feeling of Marta’s hair through his fingers. He does not blink a tear from his eye, does not turn his face so Geralt can’t see. He only sings. Four times, five. He does not look at Geralt. He focuses on Ciri, on the furrow leaving her brow and the blanket of calm settling over her. The agitation seeps out of Geralt just as slow, and Jaskier can feel the tension leaving the room as both Witcher and Child Surprise begin to soothe. 

It takes seven rounds of the song for Ciri to settle fully, and when she does her breath finally turns deep and she curls into a ball on her side. Geralt moves for the blanket and he and Jaskier carefully tuck it in around her. Gold eyes meet blue over the bed, and Geralt tips his head towards the door. 

The lamplight is low in the hall, but Jaskier can just make out the shape of Geralt’s jaw in the dim glow. He leans heavily against the wall, running hands over his tired face. “How long was she like that?” He asks into his hands, keeping his voice low. 

“Hour, maybe two. I try to keep her calm, try to let her know she’s safe but nothing works.” A pause and then a large hand closes over his wrist, pulling gently away from his face. “Until you, tonight. Thank you, Julian.” The quiet sincerity in Geralt’s voice is what draws Jaskier to his gaze, and when he meets it he finds he cannot look away. It occurs to him how close Geralt is, and that the Witcher has yet to drop his wrist. He finds himself distracted for a moment by the way the light catching his eyes makes them flash, almost like a cat in the dark. He is pulled into that warm amber comfort, the gaze that feels like safety and home and everything good. Geralt’s thumb swipes over his wrist, once, then twice, and it sends tingles up his arm. “That song...” Geralt sounds as close to hesitant as he gets, and all at once that warm moment ends. 

“I don’t want to talk about the song, Geralt,” He snaps, moving down the hall towards his own bedroom. Geralt’s fingers are still wrapped around his wrist and instead of letting go the Witcher simply starts trailing after him. 

“You don’t want to talk about a lot of things these days.” 

“I’m sorry, is _Geralt of Rivia_ the same man who once went _nine days_ refusing to speak to _anyone_ _but_ _his horse_ actually advocating for conversation right now?” Jaskier throws back over his shoulder as he jiggles the handle of his ever-jammed bedroom door one handed. 

“Roach is an excellent conversationalist.” It’s measured but Jaskier can hear the teasing lilt to his voice and resolves to smack the look off Geralt’s face. Turning around to do just that brings him chest to chest with Geralt, his back pressed against the door, hand caught tight in Geralt’s grip. “Lark,” Geralt rumbles with fondness, tipping forward to press their foreheads together and the familiar shiver that particular nickname sends up Jaskier’s spine doesn’t make him weak at the knees even a little. “I am trying to do better. I don’t want to be the man who won’t speak to you for six days.” Sensing the coming interruption Geralt rushes to add, “And I say six because it _was six_ , the three other days you were refusing to speak to me in retribution. Listen to me, lark,” Geralt’s free hand comes up to cup Jaskier’s cheek, the other moves to wrap around his hip, grounding them together. “I promised you it would be different this time, and I keep my promises. Talk to me.” 

Jaskier lets his eyes slide shut, lets himself relax for just a moment in the comforting and familiar warmth, and just _believes_ for a second. Geralt’s thumb brushes over his cheekbone and it’s intimate in a way he’s unfamiliar with. “Jas, please. Look at me.” He can count the number of times Geralt has said please on one hand, and still he does not open his eyes. 

Jaskier wants to believe him. He wants Geralt to kiss him until they’re both breathless. He wants to believe Geralt is his now, will always be his. He wants to open the door and pull Geralt into bed with him and not get up until very, very late in the morning. He wants to skip his classes and spend all day in bed with his Witcher. He wants and he wants and he wants. Instead all he feels is the familiar sickening weight in his stomach. All he sees is the rage on Geralt’s face the last time he’d let himself believe in this. All he hears, over and over, like it was new, _if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

He’s saved from having to answer by the sound of hurried feet on the stairs. Geralt pulls away a half second before a harried looking Erik comes around the corner. He stops in front of them, out of breath and panting. 

“Master Julian, good you’re done. I didn’t want to disturb, ‘cos I know Fio- the Lady wasn’ sleeping well, but you’ve got to come downstairs, she’s in a _rage_ down there ‘nd really, I was just keepin’ an eye on the bread oven for Auntie, sos it wouldn’t burn, I wasn’ even sup’osed to be opening the door but, well, you know how Auntie gets when you wake her early and I _thought_ it would just be someone from the college like usual with a message for Master Julian, but then _she_ came in, and she’s dressed like a proper lady and like I said she is _mad,_ Master Julian, and I really wasn’t gon’ interrupt but she’s askin’ for you and I-” Jaskier held up a hand, halting the unintelligible mess of words spilling from the boy. 

“Let’s see if I can make sense of this. You were on overnight duty.” Nod. “You opened the door for what you thought would be a messenger for the University.” Nod. “It wasn’t, it was a lady and she is very angry. With you?” Shake. “With me?” Nod. “Right. Did the lady give a name?” 

“Yessir.” 

A moment passes, and Geralt and Jaskier exchange a look over the boy’s head. “Will you tell us the name?”

“Oh, right. Sorry, Master Julian, I’m all turned around tonight.” The boy straightens up, and says as if repeating the words very carefully, “The Lady of Lettenhove, Marta Riza Pancratz, requests your immediate presence in the study.”

“Oh, _shit_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay everyone i'm just gonna pretend that it hasn't been like three months since i updated, cool? cool. please let me know in the comments if you enjoyed this chapter, i was a little worried about there being tonal differences between this chapter and the last. 
> 
> the song jaskier sings is called the song of the sea, from the beautiful and fantastic film, Song of the Sea.  
> you can find the song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oBYRGXN0ksc  
> and i totally recommend the Gaeilge version (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ySL5HL6tFc4) which is also in the film. i almost put it in Gaeilge for the fic, but seeing as i do not speak the language i wasn't sure that would be appropriate, so y'all get the english translation 
> 
> the other lullaby contenders were wild mountain thyme and garners gay, both folk songs i heard growing up in a morris dancing community, but i ultimately went with the sea theme bc i cannot resist a theme, folks. also apparently i lied when i said the sisters wouldn't come up again- i just really love people yelling at geralt and jaskier wasn't gonna do it so i found someone who would ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> ps. if anyone is wondering, riza was my great granmother's name, and i've always wanted to use it in something, and if jaskier gets a middle name so does she

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello i really hope ya'll like it, i'm p excited about this idea. one thing to note: i have neither seen the games nor read the books so my factual knowledge comes from wiki and tumblr and that legit unhelpful map on netflix. i also don't know how banks, viscounts, or medieval schools work so just go with me and it'll be fine


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